Immaculate Reception (3 page)

“Is this for real?” Holly wondered.

“It seems to be,” said Wes. “We don't know who this guy Ugo is, of course.”

“And we don't know when it was written,” I added, “or where.”

“And we haven't a clue about the alleged victim.” Wes said. “But it's disturbing, isn't it?”

Holly sat in thought. “Can we look into it?”

“I'm not sure it's really any of our business,” Wesley said.

“But maybe someone was killed,” Holly suggested.

Wes shook his head. “We don't know enough. Chances are this is a very old document. We found it tucked into a notebook of recipes and some of the recipes in it go back two centuries. And it most likely came from Europe.”

“So we're gonna do, like, nothing?”

“Well, I'll give the note to Xavier,” I said. “It's his book of recipes. Perhaps the church will investigate.”

“But you're so good at finding answers, Mad,” Holly said. “You're great at murder.”

“That was a one-time-only deal,” Wes said with finality.

It's true, I had once met a killer. And I believed I was pretty much at my lifetime limit. “Wes is right,” I said reluctantly, glancing again at the mysterious document. “I'm retired. Let's talk about something else.”

“You won't talk about your former lover, the priest. You won't talk about murder in the cathedral. Honestly, Maddie, what's left to talk about?”

“Anyone think the doughnuts need more sugar?”

T
hings were moving fast. The Vatican had released the news that the pope was going to visit Los Angeles. It would be a brief visit, with only enough time for him to perform a prayer service at Dodger Stadium, a venue that easily held sixty thousand. We'd been given the go-ahead to begin planning for the pope's breakfast, which would take place immediately before his appearance in front of the thousands. The two weeks of prep time disappeared in a dizzying jumble of meetings and approvals and protocol.

With the event three days away, I'd been shopping all morning, placing orders for ingredients, and getting our big news out by the gourmet grapevine. After this morning, suppliers and acquaintances would be spreading the word that Mad Bean was back, and she had the pope. As I danced between the stalls at the early morning produce market, I managed to put the word out that we were still hiring staff, would be interested in finding a new linens supplier, and had not yet committed to coffee beans, but time was short.

I was back home by ten-thirty and proceeded to unload my day's supply of greens into my Traulsen refrigerator. Here, in my cheerful kitchen, amid the fresh grid of white tiles and miles of butcher block counter, stood the industrial-strength restaurant supply appliances. My favorite is the brushed stainless-steel refrigerator with its glass door. The well-lit strawberries and cheeses, salamis and greens become a changeable color-splashed art piece, the
focus of my white room. Late at night, during commercials on Leno, I just barefoot it across the terracotta tiles and peer inside for a snack.

This morning I was running a little late. I'd told Arlo to meet me a half an hour ago, so I rushed as I put the last of the fresh radicchio into a yellow bowl and scooted it onto a glass shelf.

“Hey.”

I turned and watched Holly pour herself a cup of coffee.

“Hey,” I answered. “Have you seen Arlo?”

“Upstairs. He said you were having trouble with the TV.”

“You mean I have an actual live male up in my bedroom?” I squealed. I grabbed a can of Diet Coke, my caffeinated comfort drink of choice, and headed up to my room to see how Arlo was doing with my faulty cable.

We'd been seeing each other, pretty much exclusively, for over three years. Arlo Zar is very, very funny. Professionally. Arlo produces a very popular sitcom, which means he writes it, which means he's at the studio a lot. With my catering hours taking up most weekends, we managed to see one another a few times a month. Still, it was the closest I'd come to a relationship and it satisfied Arlo as well.

“Wait a minute,” Holly called after me as I dashed down the hall.

“I'll be back,” I said, and then climbed the sweeping staircase up to the second floor where I'd fitted out a small apartment for my personal needs. In what had been Ben Turpin's master bedroom, I'd set up a sitting room, with a slipcovered sofa facing the small fireplace decorated with its original Batchelder tiles in a matte moss green. The second bedroom was now my library/dining room, and the humble third bedroom held my humble bed.

It was fun coming home to a man fixing something. I called out to my man.

“Arlo, sweetie?” I sang out down the short hall. “Does my big macho man have his tool out?”

Arlo usually appreciated a double entendre, especially
whilst in my bedroom. What I hadn't accounted for was that Arlo was not alone. In my tiny room, in which my queen-size bed, covered with quilts, and an old dresser could barely coexist, Arlo was talking to someone. I saw right away that the someone was Xavier.

“Oh, hi.” I put so much sunny spin on the “hi” that I'm sure no one could hear surprise in my voice. To say nothing of alarm.

“Xavier. Arlo. Well. I guess you two have met.” What an idiot I was. They were sitting on my bed with maybe two feet separating them. They'd met.

Arlo was fiddling with a screwdriver, like he'd been working on the cable or something. He looked pretty much the way he always does. His brown curly hair needed cutting, but otherwise he was neat as a pin. He tended to be well pressed, right down to his faded jeans. He's that wiry type, the kind that doesn't carry an ounce of fat. Among his many “quirks” is that he's very particular about his food. It's been pointed out, with my passion for exotic cuisine, the absurdity that I would end up with a guy who will permit no green food to touch his plate, save iceberg, and then only when cut in a wedge and topped with Kraft Thousand Island. I've explained that it keeps me in balance.

I squeezed into the small room and, noting that the bed was crowded with two-thirds of the men I'd ever been involved with, chose instead to lean casually against the wall.

“Madeline.” Xav stood up and almost bumped into me, so tightly were we pressed together. “I came by to drop off some ideas…”

“Please, sit,” I said, interrupting. It was either that or hold my breath for the rest of our conversation. Xav hesitated for a moment and then sat.

“How'd you two end up…”

“…in bed together?” Arlo smirked, looking pretty damn comfortable lounging on my bed.

“We came at the same time. Sorry I didn't call you first, Maddie,” Xav explained.

“So I brought him up here to help me debug your cable
mess until you got here. I understand you two are old friends from San Francisco?”

How much background had they covered in their attempt at making small talk? See, I'd told Arlo I'd been engaged a long time ago, but nothing else.

“Been talking long?” I asked.

“Yeah. I got the dirt. In fifteen minutes I've found out Xavier's most intimate secret.”

“Oh?” I felt the room rock. Could we be having a mild earthquake?

Xavier was laughing. “He didn't find me out. I confessed.”

“Shocking,” Arlo joked. “Your friend doesn't even own a television.”

“But I apologized, man. Give me a break.”

Yeah. They were getting on like gangbusters. Heaven help me.

“Arlo's been telling me about his work. Fascinating,” Xavier went on, then turned on the bed and spoke to Arlo. “Did you ever consider what a blessing it is to have such a huge audience?”

“Every time I renegotiate my contract, pal.”

“People listen to you. Your voice matters. It's a blessing. What a unique opportunity you have to put forth a positive message.”

“I could get another level out of my scripts you mean?” Arlo suddenly got quiet. “Jesus, that's exactly what I've been missing in this episode. Amazing.” Arlo was buzzed. “You know, Xavier, ‘Woman's Work' is filming tomorrow night. How about you coming to see the show?”

“That would be great,” said Xavier.

“Great,” I said, with about fifty percent enthusiasm.

“No trouble. And bring a date,” Arlo offered.

“A date,” I repeated. Had Arlo missed the vital fact that Xavier was
Brother
Xavier?

Xavier smiled at me and then said to Arlo, “Thanks. But I don't date.”

“Don't worry. I'll take care of it. We'll find you someone who's not gonna break any mirrors.”

This is what comes of not filling in the troops. I was some general.

“Arlo. Brother Xavier is here for the pope's visit. Get it?
Brother
Xavier?”

“Okay, then,” Arlo said, standing up quickly and leaving Xav to sit alone on my quilted bed. “Sure wish someone had mentioned that before I went into a ten-minute routine about condoms.”

“Never laughed so hard,” replied Xavier, smoothly, “notwithstanding the church's position on birth control.”

“So,” Arlo said, startled but laughing by now, “you're an actual priest? Where's the warning collar?”

“The Society of Jesus also includes those who are called brothers. We are full Jesuits but we are not ordained to the priesthood. Don't feel bad. Actually, very few people know about us.”

“But you, uh, brothers can't date,” Arlo said, cutting to the chase.

“We take a vow of celibacy, yes.”

“Get out of town!”

“Arlo,” I said.

“Hey, it's interesting. You're not priests, so what kind of stuff do you do?”

“We serve the church through our work in the community and we practice in occupations outside of what you'd call monastery life, out in the real world. We call this ‘service without power.'”

“Kind of the exact opposite of the guys who run my studio.” Arlo began to giggle again. “Man, so you're an honest-to-God
Jesuit
. Tell me more.”

“Our order was founded by St. Ignatius of Loyola in 1534,” Xavier said, smiling a little when he realized that Arlo was truly listening.

I realized for the first time how hard it must be for Xavier, choosing a life that is so foreign to the outside world.

“In the early years,” Xavier went on, “Jesuit Brothers
distinguished themselves as architects, painters, musicians, builders, linguists, you name it. After 1814, most of the brothers became artisans. And since the Second Vatican Council, we've been encouraged to obtain advanced degrees.”

“No shit.”

Before we'd sucked the last oxygen from the tiny room I said, “Shall we go downstairs where I can offer you men something to drink?”

Arlo wanted to reconnect the cable, so I led Xavier back down to the kitchen.

“Great guy,” he said.

I checked Xav's face for a reaction. Surely he'd figured out that Arlo and I were on, well, bedroom familiar terms.

“We've been seeing each other for a few years.”

“I don't want you to think I'm prying into your private life, Madeline. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Then why did you come back? Aloud, I asked if he'd like some coffee.

“Thank you.”

As I turned and handed him the cup I found him staring. “You lookin' at me?” We used to do that. It was a variation of a line from
Taxi Driver
and when we'd been together we had quoted it back and forth, seeing who could most convincingly recreate DeNiro's reading. Odd. I hadn't thought about that in years.

“You look great, Madeline.”

“Thanks.”

He sipped his coffee. I refilled my glass of Diet Coke. The seconds ticked silently by.

“When I was told to come to Los Angeles to work on the pope's visit, I knew I had to come and see you. I wanted to.”

“I'm glad you did.”

“It's been a long time, Madeline.”

“Yeah. So what do you think?”

“I thought you'd be married by now, you know? Settled, with lots of kids.”

“Yeah. That's me.”

“I thought you wanted children. Didn't you?”

“I did. I do. Some day. But not now.”

“It would have been easier for me if you had a lot of kids, Madeline. Then I'd know you had found happiness.”

“Hey, Xavier. Kids are not the only way a woman can be happy. I never realized you were so…”

“No, don't say it. That's not what I really meant, anyway. Let me try to get myself out of that one. See, I just wanted to know that you were all right.”

“I'm fine.”

“Really?”

“Why did you dump me, Xav? Why did you ask me to marry you and talk about how our life would be and then just…?”

He put down his coffee cup and stared into the small puddle he'd made in his saucer.

“It's all old news anyway, Xav. So just for curiosity's sake, why the hell did you disappear?”

“I didn't want to hurt you. You know that.” He took my hand and looked at it. “I had…”

Into the kitchen walked Arlo. Xavier looked up and then let go of my hand. The moment was gone.

When no one spoke, Arlo jumped into the void. “Hope I didn't interrupt anything, uh, religious.”

“I was just about to show Xavier something interesting. It's an old letter Wes and I found when we were looking through some recipes.”

“What letter?” Xav asked.

“It's written in Latin.” I went to a drawer and retrieved the document. “It seems to be a confession.”

“Whose confession?” Arlo asked.

Xavier read through the Latin and looked up, perplexed. “This is truly bizarre. It seems to be a confession to murder.”

“That's my Maddie,” Arlo sighed. “She's getting to be a regular murder magnet.”

“What does the note mean?” I asked.

“It's hard to say. Let me take it back with me. I'll show it to someone who may be able to check the name of the man who is mentioned. It's a puzzle. Why would such a remarkable document be stuck into a recipe book?”

“It was among the papers you had shipped to you from the Castel Gandalfo,” I said, as puzzled as ever.

“What's that?” Arlo asked.

“That's the pope's summer residence,” Xavier said, frowning. “What would an admitted murderer be doing in the pope's kitchens?”